


Honey in the Comb

by ghuune



Category: Supernatural RPF
Genre: A little angst, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Anilingus, Barebacking, Cockles, Established Relationship, First Time, M/M, Much Fluff in Rome, Porn, a little plot, tinhat!verse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-25
Updated: 2016-01-25
Packaged: 2018-05-16 05:50:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,301
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5816587
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ghuune/pseuds/ghuune
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Y'all made it this far: have some porn. First time vs. Established Relationship. They switch.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Honey in the Comb

XII. AUGUST 2nd, 2009  
Misha took his beer bottle, his fingers tracing his so Jensen shuddered. He up-ended and drained it, his long throat working in hard pulls. 

“You're not going to be drunk for this,” he said, pointing the empty neck of the bottle at Jensen.

He tossed it away to clink in a dark corner, which under normal circumstances would make Jensen insane, but not today. Today he was consumed with a different insanity, centered on his strutted cock, straining against the denim of his jeans. All circuits were currently busy, so his neatness obsession would have to please stay on the line. 

Misha approached him where he sat on the edge of the narrow camp bed, Jensen's eyes widening til it seemed they were about to fall out of his head. He swallowed, his throat thick and swollen, as Misha stood between his splayed thighs. Dark eyes flicked down to the evidence of his desire, rock hard, visibly pulsing, and then—ignored it.

He said, “This is not going to be about you.”

“Okay,” Jensen stammered. Misha could say this was about Queen Elizabeth and he'd still be down. Misha wore Cas's scruffy beard. It made him just that much a stranger, added an extra edge of weird lust to this thing. Their first time, and Misha was some unknowable amalgamation, half Misha, half hopeless fallen angel, all threat. 

Misha's eyes flicked hungrily down to his mouth, and the threat lessened, just a little. Big talk from the new guy, but he was just as much a beggar to this party as Jensen was himself. Deep down, Jensen was a little disappointed, but hey, the promise was still there. 

His lips parted without his conscious volition when Misha touched them, the tip of his tongue chasing his fingertips, trying to accelerate this process—like c'mon, hadn't they suffered enough?--but Misha slipped away to trail over his chin, along the joint of his jaw. Jensen fisted his hands in the sheets.

Misha pressed closer, his thigh finally making contact with Jensen's cock, and yeah, that was more like it. He flexed his ass for friction, sensation, and Misha didn't stop him, watching Jensen's face as though the Bible were being rewritten in real time there. He swallowed and Jensen gasped, soft and needy. This. A whole year of this, looks, swallows, damn, were they going to get it or not?

Misha's white teeth flashed in the low light from the single lamp. “I like watching you be desperate for me,” he said. His mouth flattened, serious once more, as he reminded him, “I told you, this isn't about you.”

“Please,” Jensen said.

“Too soon,” Misha said, tsking. His fingers followed the jump of Jensen's blood up the artery in his neck. "Jesus, Jensen. Where's your self-respect?”

“Maybe try not bringing Jesus into this?” Jensen's voice shook as his fingers burned his skin.

“He can watch if He wants.” Misha shrugged, careless, blasphemous, rockstar angel, outcast child. 

He suddenly clasped the back of Jensen's neck and claimed his mouth in a rush, his tongue intruding without warning, insistent and thirsty. Their teeth clicked together like pebbles flicked against the window of a childhood crush, a sound, a small dull pain that somehow encompassed summer nights and rain. All this went through Jensen too fast to understand, but it changed the way he felt about this encounter. Added an edge of nostalgia and sweetness. His first boy-love had been that way, pebbles on the glass and night-time thunder. Secret and hidden, but also sweeter for all that.

Misha was not on that page at all. He pushed him back onto the bed, still kissing him, heavy on him. He wanted to wrap his arms around him. He wanted to read the subtle bones in Misha's back, to use this sex to show him how grateful he was for every laugh, every time his lashes drooped to hide the emotions in his eyes, and yet he couldn't. He was racked between tenderness and lust, off-balance, beginning to feel afraid.

Misha broke the kiss and stared into Jensen's eyes for a long moment—reading him. And no. This could not be about feelings. Dani had given him the go ahead to have what he needed; she hadn't given the go ahead to be replaced. She trusted him to keep this safe for all of them. She actually

It wasn't Misha's fault. Jensen was just being himself, weak and parasitical as always. He twisted his face away, avoided his eyes. He didn't want Misha to know this about him. He wished he didn't know it himself.

“It's all right,” Misha said, coming out of the role, his voice different, complicated. He ran his fingers inside the gap between the waistband of Jensen's pants and his flat stomach, nails sliding against skin, the hangnail on his middle finger scratching like a cat's claw. He stared down at his fingers as they disappeared, used his thumb to pop the button on the jeans and said, dark and layered, “I know what you want. I know what you need, and believe me, I know the difference.”

The combination of sudden looseness at his waist and Misha's words made Jensen arc his back and whine. His cock wept, a wet spot spreading on the denim. 

Misha's palm was there, warm against the rapidly-cooling dampness. “Yeah, get wet for me,” he said into Jensen's mouth before he snatched a hard kiss. His palm heavy, scrubbing him through the maddening, muffling fabric, the pressure stoking him. 

“Please,” Jensen said again, his voice breaking, urgent.

Misha bit him, low where Dean's typical plaid overshirt would easily hide it, hard enough to leave a mark. Tiny vessels broke—he could feel the pulse of the universe, as sensitive as he was right now—and blood leaked into the spaces between. He barked a short, hard cry. 

“Okay,” Misha said into its echoes, his voice unsteady. He pulled the zipper down. Jensen lifted his hips, shucked and writhed, only to be held up by the fact that he hadn't taken off his shoes.

Misha choked out a laugh. “My fault. Hang on.” He ducked down the edge of the bed, his fingers stumbling on the laces, and threw the boots into the darkness as casually as he had the beer bottle, thump, thump. Jensen's jeans followed suit, but he didn't hear the soft whumph of their landing over the roar of his blood in his ears. His rigid cock, freed at last, slapped against his stomach, a shaft of heat. 

Misha moaned helplessly at the sight of it, big, uncut, head glistening wet and engorged, like a plum nicked just enough to dribble juice. Jensen grinned, a little wild, more than a little smug. He'd heard enough about his nice cock to own it, and, as it turned out, he loved making Misha break character here as much as he did on set. 

Misha licked his lips, transfixed, until Jensen cleared his throat to get his attention. 

“I'm still here,” he husked out, and then he pushed Jensen back with one hand pressed against his flexed stomach. He still knelt between his thighs, his breath gusting cool against the hot skin of his scrotum, as he took his scent off his most private places. 

That almost made him lose his grip on this thing again, made him feel open, vulnerable. “No,” he said, not knowing what he denied.

“Shh. This isn't about you,” Misha said again. He pressed wet kisses on Jensen's inner thighs, starting near the knees, working his way up until his breath once again panted against him. Then his tongue flicked against his opening and Jensen's shoulders rocketed off the bed.

“Lay back and relax already.” Misha's voice a flat command, eyes flashing hot and blue.

“But—” 

Misha rolled his eyes and groaned dramatically. “Just how many times does it take to get this through your head?” he said. “Shut up and let me enjoy myself.”

“But it's disgusting.” Jensen finally managed to finish his thought. He was proud of himself. He'd had this done to him before, but it was an act he refused to perform. It was unsanitary, and his pleasure in it rode side-by-side with revulsion.

“Guess I'm into disgust,” Misha said, grinning up at him, loose and bright. “You smell good to me, Jen. You taste good. You showered, you're clean. Now, in all seriousness, shut the fuck up.”

Jensen flopped back on the bed, and Misha went to work in earnest, fucking him with his tongue. He lost himself in sensations of wet heat, thrusting, opening. He had permission to enjoy this. Misha was only using him to please himself, after all. 

His tongue was just long enough to tease his prostate, but not enough to really stimulate it, turning the whole thing into an extended tease that had him writhing, his moans ricocheting off the walls of the trailer. He prayed he couldn't be heard in the lot. It was late and most everyone had gone home—he hoped. 

Whatever. He guessed he'd live with a few weird looks in the morning. His head was light, his body buzzing, blood full of bees. He had never been attended to so thoroughly.

At some point, Misha substituted his tongue with skilled, lubed fingers, pressing the swollen gland inside him, in the meantime sucking kisses on his belly, his hips, avoiding his engorged dick, which twitched and drooled. Orgasm hunched like a rough beast just over the horizon, panting, enormous, the color of sand, haunches and shoulders rippling with power, but each time it gathered itself to pounce, Misha pulled back, touched him elsewhere, until it subsided.

From a great distance, he heard his own voice, begging, moaning, cursing, language pulled from him against his will. He couldn't make out the words. Maybe there were none.

From the same great distance, as he jolted off the mattress with each knowledgeable stroke of Misha's fingers, he wondered how Misha was doing. A note of self-hatred almost became the dominate tune as he thought of him, aroused, holding off to see to him. Selfish bastard that he was.

“Mish—” He fought through a world of curtains to say it, because all the sudden, this was the most important thing. “C'mere. Come to me.”

“Yes,” Misha said, rough and low. Jensen's blurred vision focused enough to tell that he'd managed to take off his clothes, his hair standing on end, eyes as black as a demon's. His cock stood against his belly, shining with precum. 

He gripped his hips and hauled him to the end of the bed with easy strength, veins standing out on his biceps. His body, broad-shouldered, flat-hipped, muscles and veins roped over bone, beautiful and balanced. Jensen hissed as lust shoved needles down his nerves.

“C'mon,” he gritted.

Misha bent over him then, thrust his tongue into his mouth, and Jensen was too blind to think about where that tongue had been. He sucked it, twined it with his own, Misha's flavor his favorite wine. Misha hard against him, heavy on him, muscles bunching and rippling as he moved. His nipples tiny buttons, velvet beneath his thumbs, skin like silk over ribs, over muscle and bone. 

Misha broke the kiss first, lips chapped red and distorted with desire as intense as pain. Foil crackled as he unwrapped a condom, then grabbed the ready bottle of lube and slicked himself up, shuddering at the touch of his own hand. The sight of his pleasure damn near made Jensen come. Wildly, he yearned for all the times they had in the future to happen right now. He wanted to suck him off. He wanted to give him a double handjob, his own cock hot and slick inside his fist, gliding against Misha's. He wanted him gasping, moaning, doubled over because of him, and he wanted that now. 

He opened without Misha having to urge him, and when he did, Misha's look of pure, humble gratitude slid as easily as a sharpened knitting needle between the ribs around his heart.

Then he entered him.

Jensen breathed out, focused on relaxing, but he was already so open and wet that the Zen routine wasn't necessary. The pain he'd anticipated—it had been so long since he'd done this—didn't happen. Instead, there was only fullness and the pressure of Misha's erection against his over-stimulated prostate, a bolt of pure pleasure that made him clamp everything against its strength.

Misha himself let out a choked gasp, almost a cough, and his cock jumped inside Jensen's sensitive channel. When Jensen could risk opening his eyes, Misha had his head bowed until his chin almost touched his chest, the muscles of his forearms stark wires as he braced himself against the mattress. 

Jensen couldn't help it. He reached up to palm his cheek. When Misha opened his eyes and met his, he tried to put all the gratitude he felt into his expression. Misha wouldn't last long, he knew, and he also knew that would embarrass him. His intention was to reassure him: he was not disappointed. 

“You shouldn't feel so fucking good,” Misha said, almost angry with it. He pumped, slow, his face contorted with concentration. 

“Neither should you.”

Misha shhed him, closed his eyes against his gaze, and Jensen wished he wouldn't, but at the same time, he was grateful. Every stroke of his cock inside him summoned the beast, lumbering closer, crowning the horizon, stretching out to a run. If Misha stared him in the eyes while that animal approached, Jensen didn't know if he could hold to his resolution.

This was sex, he reminded himself. This was pleasure. This was scratching an itch. Sex. All it was.

Never mind the way the weak light of the lamp picked out Misha's sharp cheekbones, the angle of his jaw, the long triangle of his Adam's apple in his vulnerable neck. Never mind the flex and fall of his flanks as he took him. Never mind his weird, quirky humor that always, no matter how Jensen guarded himself against it, sent him to his knees, or the beauty of his philosophy of life that focused on whimsy and kindness, a stark contrast to his world, which only wanted to talk about what had failed or was about to fail.

Including Jensen himself, a failure on so many levels. 

But he was not failing here. Misha sped up, his rhythm breaking at the crest of each wave, stuttering out as the pleasure inside him broke his concentration, and Jensen was there with him. Every muscle tight and yearning, racing towards completion, blood pressure and heart rate through the roof, skin flushed hot as hell, a physical catastrophe in the works.

Misha made noises now, broken, staggered, his beautiful mouth falling open to show a flash of teeth and the darkness inside, eyes screwed shut. His breathing a tattered flag unfurling, and it was all so gorgeous that Jensen fought back his orgasm—battled that beast as though it would kill him—just so he could witness this a little while longer.

But it ended; it ended because Misha, doubled, thrusting, totally disorganized and wrecked, coughed a harsh curse and spent, his cock leaping inside him, and it was too much. The beast spun in its prints in a flash and pinned him, tore out his belly.

The orgasm, so long deferred, pulsed out from his center through his limbs, out the top of his skull. It went on a stupidly long time. From a distance, Jensen heard the sounds he made: they were ridiculous, his face probably more so.

When he finally came back, he found Misha watching him, quiet, composed. He was wrapped around him, one leg between his own, the other on top, his arm on his waist. He was warm. The smell of their sex hung in the air, a complicated musk with the commercial, plastic note of lubricant a discordant note within it. 

He wanted to kiss him, but he didn't. He closed his eyes, turned his face against the pillow. 

Then Misha disentangled himself and stood. Jensen heard him gather his clothes. Cold air slapped the skin where he once had been.

“You're welcome,” he said, and left him there, alone. 

 

XIII. MAY 12-13th, 2013  
Damned bourbon.

Jensen studied the bourbon in his glass, golden like honey as it caught the light, then turned his attention back to the panoramic view of glittering Rome. He leaned his elbows on the balcony railing and soaked it all in: the marble buildings with their fleshlike glow, the narrow streets full of tiny cars and tinier people, the smell of liquor, like leather and pepper. 

He should be freaking out. Thanks to the double Ty had served them onstage, the wheels had come off the bus in his joint panel with Misha. There was no sugar-coating it: short of actually kissing, they could not have been gayer for each other.

Weirdly, considering the difficult conversations awaiting him back in the States, his only concern had been Danneel. She was too heavily pregnant to fly, but she'd livestreamed the panel from home. He'd been unable to swallow through a throat tight with worry until her text finally came: a few screens of “haha” at international rates, and then, “guess that'll learn you to drink onstage.”

Misha's phone had gone off a moment later, and he took the call inside the room. Jensen already knew what she'd say to him: a lot of angry “I trusted you to look out for him,” and “What the hell happened,” and “Dammit, Misha!” Because all that was true, too. But then, that was Misha's problem, not his.

He and Danneel were okay. As for the rest of it, well, what was done, was done. Might as well relax. If he'd learned nothing else from Mish, he'd learned that. Glass of bourbon dangling from fingers roughened by guitar strings, that was exactly what he did.

Misha came back out to the balcony, a glass of his own in his hands. He pressed in beside Jensen, shoulder and thigh against his. Jensen stroked his spine, enjoying his warmth, the architecture of his muscle and bone.

“So about how much do you think the settlement would be if I poured this out on... that guy there?” Misha asked, nodding down at a tempting bald head walking down the sidewalk eight stories below.

“He'd probably just think, 'Wow, that was a really big pigeon.'” Jensen smiled.

Misha laughed and said, “'Who'd had a lot to drink today.'” He nuzzled Jensen's arm, smiling up at him hugely as Jensen laughed in his turn.

Jensen pulled back and put on a stern face. “Did you plan that?” 

Misha's eyes flicked up to meet his. Jensen had a bet with himself to see if there was any lighting on Earth in which his eyes would not be too blue. He hadn't found it yet. 

“What? No! God, no. Fucking Ty. He poured heavy.”

And then, high on the liquor and each other, they'd just lost it. Jensen turned his face to Misha's hair, breathed in that hippie shampoo, Misha's own salt-and-woodchips scent beneath it, to show he understood.

“Good thing for you, Jared's not around to kick your ass.” He spoke against his temple, his hair against his nose soft as feathers.

Misha snorted. “Remember who broke whose ribs.”

“And remember who broke your elbow.”

“Be fair. You have to admit, he has just the slightest mechanical advantage. How's his sister-in-law?” 

Jensen grimaced and pulled back from him. “They're still waiting. There's some...” He gestured at his temple, “brain swelling. So far, she's holding steady. They're optimistic.” 'Guardedly optimistic,' had been Jared's phrasing. 

Misha nodded and sipped his drink.

“Where's Vicki?” Jensen asked.

Misha stared out over the city a moment and then, shifting his bourbon to the other hand, pointed. “That way. She found a sidewalk artist who'll let West play with his chalk.”

Vicki and Misha's marriage took place mostly in their imaginations, so far as Jensen could tell, and yet, if he called her right now, she probably would say something about West playing with chalk. He believed in higher dimensions and unseen energies, but that level of accuracy freaked him out.

“They having a good time?” 

“Oh yeah.” Misha looked dreamy. “Maison's in a fountain. A guard's about to yell at Vicki. That should be fun for her.”

“That's good... I guess.”

“The best,” Misha agreed, ignoring Jensen's clueless tone, smiling bright. He finished his bourbon and set the glass on the table, then looked at him, his eyes intense, serious. “She doesn't expect me back tonight. Since you were about to ask.”

Jensen grinned shyly down at the miniature people below, blushing, because yeah, he had been about to ask.

“Tell me something, Miss Cleo,” he said, recovering and taking a stiff drink, “since you're so good at this, why don't you hook into Jared and give me up-to-the minute updates?”

Because if there was a dark cloud here, it was the thought of his brother hunched in a too-small plastic chair, nurses tripping over his feet, while he waited to learn whether his wife's heart would break.

“I'm not good at this—that's all Vicki.” Misha smiled the way he did whenever Vicki came up, like she was a religious revelation he was recalling from long ago. Then he shrugged, back on Earth again. “Leaving aside the fact that even if I could, I wouldn't want to... he'd never let me. He's shielded. He has trouble letting in the people he even wants there.”

Jensen nodded, finishing his drink. He hoped it would do something about the nagging voice in his head that said he was a bad person for being here now, happy, loved; he belonged by his brother's side, sharing his pain, lending support.

Misha's eyes on him like two suns, penetrating warmth. The corners of his lips curved up, sly. He took Jensen's empty glass from his hand and set it on the breakfast table with his.

“And that's enough about Jared,” he said. “Sorry. I know you love drowning in his misery, but we're in Rome, widely held to be the sexiest city in Europe, and he is not. I think that's cause for celebration. I'm thinking property damage, hotel maids staging impromptu arias over suggestively stained sheets...” Misha's eyebrows rose. “That would do nicely.” 

He'd insinuated himself between Jensen and the railing as he spoke, his pelvis dragging across his, his hands on Jensen's ass, hard against him.

“Been thinking about this awhile?” Jensen asked. His voice was thick. He'd been thinking of it, too. 

Misha tipped his chin, which was all the invitation he needed. They kissed against the railing, Italian voices like a song heard from such a distance the lyrics became jumbled.  
-  
Jensen took him to bed and started to undress him, dropping open kisses on each body part as he revealed it: a wet kiss on the inside of each elbow when the overshirt came off, tongue for his navel when the T-shirt came off. Like that. Misha's blood rushed against his lips, a reassuring beat for the song of his life, the brag of his heart in his chest when he kissed it: I am, I am, I am.

Sometimes Jensen's feelings were too large, too much. He coped. He deferred them; he packed them away; he gave them to other people, people he trusted.... This was one of those times. Love lanced through him, so intense he couldn't tell it apart from pain or joy. It couldn't last. Feelings like these never did. They burned until they consumed all the tinder, leaving ashes—ashes that smoldered, perhaps, ready to catch again should more fuel be added, but just as often gone cold and black, bitter. God! His brain! He silently begged Misha to shut up his stupid brain.

Misha heard him. Ever since the night he'd walked into Jensen's trailer and straight in his arms, sucked on his earlobe and rumbled, “Thanks for the song,” everything had been different. He'd always been happy to fuck his brains out, had always liked to flirt and play, but since the song, he finally, at last, believed Jensen loved him, cared for him. Would keep him. He changed, became tender, open... vulnerable. And he listened for him. 

Misha stretched his neck for a kiss, Jensen's lips already swollen and stinging from the ones that had grown increasingly heated outside. Beneath the flavor of bourbon was Misha's own taste, tea leaves and earth. He was over worrying how he craved that flavor; he only knew that he did. He stroked the length of Misha's long throat, his Adam's apple a hard triangle beneath his palm, and Misha gasped into his mouth and thrust against him, his cock, restrained by denim, furiously hard. Jensen pet down his chest, his thumbs skimming small, brown nipples, flat and velvety, over the ridged muscles over his ribs to the softer flesh of his tummy. A stripe of hair stretched from his navel to the waistband of his jeans, springy, softer than Jensen's. Their stomachs pressed together, their hard-ons ground against each other, and what they really needed was for all these damned clothes to come off.

Still kissing, always kissing, they tried to undo each other's pants, tried to help the other undo his own pants, unable to do the obvious and separate long enough to get undressed like adults. Jensen felt fifteen again, fumbling around on the oversized beat-on sofa down in the rec room, the one that smelled of wet dog and corn chips. It was a biomechanical disaster of elbows punching sternums and knees crashing into ribs. Too in love, stupid with it. Misha flushed, rose-red flags on his cheekbones, his lips bitten red and swollen, his neck and chest blotchy with blood beneath his usually sallow olive skin. Eyes glowing blue in the light from the lamps. The sight of him made Jensen bow his head with a rush of exhaled air, socked in the gut. 

They finally managed it, somehow. Jensen whipped Misha's jeans over his head lasso-style to make him laugh, then winged them into a far corner. 

Misha grabbed him around the ribs and threw him under, swirled kisses on his nipples, but that was not Jensen's plan tonight. He'd let Misha drive in the panel—look how that turned out—so, even though Misha was working his way down and that was always an excellent thing, Jensen hooked his leg over Misha's thighs and rolled him back underneath.

Which was worth it for Misha's dumbfounded expression, all dilated pupils and confusion.

Jensen kissed that expression off his face, replacing it with closed eyelids, puffed with arousal, red lips slightly parted and helpless. 

He bent to Misha's ear, bit kisses up the curve, whispered into it, “I love you.”

Misha arced and moaned, his hard-on painting pre-cum on Jensen's stomach to cool and crack.

“I love you,” Misha said, breathless, “fucking God, Jen! So much.”

Jensen bent his head, smiling, but close to pain. Misha said that so rarely. 

He'd said it in the panel, and it had nearly been the end of everything. If Jensen hadn't knocked his dumb face away, he'd've kissed him in front of a thousand screaming fangirls. Right now, he had a hard time remembering why that would be so bad. Wild fantasies streamed through his head: a giant house, the wives and kids tumbling around downstairs, upstairs for them, sexual origami and orgasms. He didn't even know. Just right this moment, the thought of not being with Misha was akin to losing a leg.

“I'm gonna have you,” he said.

The sound that sentence wrung out of Misha would live forever in his fantasies.

Jensen reached for the lube, then thought better of it. He was, essentially, a selfish lover. He laid back and he received. Tonight, he decided, it was Misha's turn.

He went down Misha's body, giving obeisance where obeisance was due, so it took awhile. Misha squirmed when he nibbled down his ribs to give attention to his navel, which was just begging for it, okay, right there in the middle of the little pad of fat he couldn't get rid of no matter how much he ran. Jensen loved it, though, that softness, right in the middle of all that lean, veiny strength; he nibbled and lapped it, just to show Misha how much he loved it. 

Then he took Misha's hand and kissed each fingertip. He watched Misha as he did it, wanted to see if the man would get his message: these hands did good in the world, they built things, they created. They were scarred and hardened by the labor. He nuzzled the palm.

Misha groaned impatiently. “Seriously, Jen, if you're gonna top, quit fucking ar—”

Jensen sucked his index finger into his mouth and Misha's last words blurred into a long moan. His eyes enormous, dominating his face as he watched his long finger disappear between Jensen's lips. Jensen nibbled the fleshy angle between Misha's index finger and thumb, left it with a kiss, and then, after he lubed up his fingers, turned his attention to Misha's cock. Misha hoisted himself up on his elbows to watch as he backed down the bed, flushed and hot-eyed. “Yes.” 

He was concrete hard, palpably pulsing with blood. He watched Jensen take the head in his mouth and then flopped back, grunting with the effort it took not to come, but Jensen was careful. He didn't, though he wanted to, lap the little ridge running down the underside of the head; he didn't, though he wanted to, suck it down to the back of his throat. He thoroughly wetted it, though, Misha's precum dissolving like a drug on his tongue.

His slick fingers easily slipped inside Misha's tight channel. Too easily. Misha was loose.

His voice rough, he said, “You better have been playing with yourself.”

“Jealous?”

“Only that you didn't let me watch.” 

That was a lie, and they both knew it. Misha's eyes met his, patient beneath the fever of lust, and he said, giving Jensen the reassurance he needed, “Vicki wouldn't have liked that.” 

Jensen dispelled the suspicion that had spurred him in the first place. It was crazy to torture himself with thoughts of Misha with other men, particularly since he'd agreed to be exclusive once this thing got serious, but his brain was an enemy and did it anyway. Vicki, however, was a different story, an acceptable excuse. The things they got up to in the bedroom would make him spontaneously combust with shame if he ever tried them with Danneel.

He applied lubricant, biting his lips at the cool slip of his hands on himself. Maybe it was the lingering image of Misha beneath some other man, but he couldn't hold back anymore. He positioned himself, thrust inside, gasping as Misha enclosed him in a blast furnace of tight heat. Misha sang out, his hips coming off the bed, flexing around him, his hands clawing at Jensen's ass, drawing him deeper. 

They moved together, warm and slow like pulled taffy. Misha stuttered his name, told him in scattered syllables like loose puzzle pieces how much he loved it. Jensen kissed the words from his mouth, because he wasn't going to last long if he had to listen to that. When he bent to do it, Misha wrapped his arms around his back, his legs around his hips, his hands gentle on him.

Jensen could hardly breathe, couldn't possibly speak. He closed his eyes and let himself be held.


End file.
